There was a pause, a gap. Something like astonishment took them both. Hitherto it had been a convention that she knew nothing of the existence of Miss Heydinger. He saw a light. "How did you know?" he began, and perceived that line was impossible. He took the way of the natural man; he ejaculated an "Ugh!" of vast disgust, he raised his voice. "You _are_ unreasonable!" he cried in angry remonstrance. "Fancy saying that! As though you ever tried to please me! Just as though it wasn't all the other way about!" He stopped--struck by a momentary perception of injustice. He plunged at the point he had shirked, "How did you know it _was_ Miss Heydinger--?" Ethel's voice took upon itself the quality of tears. "I wasn't _meant_ to know, was I?" she said. "But how?" "I suppose you think it doesn't concern me? I suppose you think I'm made of stone?" "You mean--you think--?" "Yes--I _do_." For a brief interval Lewisham stared at the issue she had laid bare. He sought some crashing proposition, some line of convincing reasoning, with which to overwhelm and hide this new aspect of things. It would not come. He found himself fenced in on every side. A surging, irrational rage seized upon him. "Jealousy!" he cried. "Jealousy! Just as though--Can't I have letters about things you don't understand--that you _won't_ understand? If I asked you to read them you wouldn't--It's just because--" "You never give me a _chance_ to understand." "Don't I?" "No!" "Why!--At first I was always trying. Socialism, religion--all those things. But you don't care--you won't care. You won't have that I've thought over these things at all, that I care for these things! It wasn't any _good_ to argue. You just care for me in a way--and all the rest of me--doesn't matter! And because I've got a friend ..." "Friend!" "Yes--_friend!_" "Why!--you hide her letters!" "Because I tell you you wouldn't understand what they are about. But, pah! I won't argue. I _won't!_ You're jealous, and there's the end of the matter!" "Well, who _wouldn't_ be jealous?" He stared at her as if he found the question hard to see. The theme was difficult--invincibly difficult. He surveyed the room for a diversion. The note-book he had disinterred from her novelettes lay upon the table and reminded him of his grievance of rained hours. His rage exploded. He struck out abruptly towards fundamental things. He gesticulated forcibly. "This can't go on!" he cried, "this can't go on! How can I work? How can I do anything?" He made three steps and stood in a clear space. "I won't _stand_, it--I won't go on at this! Quarrels--bickerings--discomfort. Look there! I meant to work this morning. I meant to look up notes! Instead of which you start a quarrel--" The gross injustice raised Ethel's voice to an outcry. "_I_ didn't start the quarrel--"